


Could be Over

by Ange_desu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Loneliness, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:29:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_desu/pseuds/Ange_desu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... If only he listened to Moriarty in his head and died back then... this could all be over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could be Over

**Author's Note:**

> This happens around the end or after season 3 of the BBC show.

He sat there, completely alone, trying to shut down. His thoughts continued on, they moved too fast and he wasn't able to keep track of them. They were paralyzing him, overwhelming him. It was unbearable, the air was stagnant. There was no problem to concentrate on, nothing to put his mind on... no distraction. Just his head, going on long, terrible ravages. He believed his cells were trying to dig his brain up into a complete mess, until he just won't be able to function anymore.

A shaky breath echoed through the silence as he curled himself up more, pulling his knees to his chest.

_Make it stop. Make it stop._

It always just moved on. The emotions he so vehemently ignored always caught up with him and prevented him from sleeping. He was tired and cornered. And the worst thing was...  _he could have been dead._ If not for John Watson, he might have not survived. He might have just followed Moriarty's voice in his head and let go of everything and it would be all over. Peaceful. Done. But no, because John lived, and John was in danger, and John needed his help. 

And the sad part?  _If it wasn't for John, he wouldn't be sitting there, curled up and pathethic and wishing he would have died._ When he woke up after being shot, he was decided to protect everything John values, everything that creates his world and is important to him. His marriage. 

Oh, yes. He woke up, and John was still married. Still having no idea about Sherlock's feelings towards him, about Sherlock's  _needy obsession_ with him. How he was as necessary as air to the detective, keeping him alive and in motion and all that. John didn't know. John never knew. And John got married. And Sherlock stood by his side and watched it all happen.

There was a flat on 221B Baker Street. It used to be an enjoyable place he could call  _home_ . He had his space and his friend there. Someone to talk to. Someone who listened to him. Papers, experiments, perspective, and a  _human life_ . He got up in the morning and found John drinking his morning tea and reading newspapers. He could play violin and know that John is out there and secretly listens to the tune. He grabbed his coat and knew that he doesn't have to walk out of the door alone... There were games – often tedious and terrible – and occasionally a fire in the fireplace. Small argues, long talks, longer periods of silence. Midnight meetings in the kitchen. Jokes about eyes in strange places, and jokes about corpses, and jokes about how John's website is crappy, and jokes about Gavin and police... 

Then it was all taken away by two years of  _being gone_ and a woman. Human error. That exactly same human error that kept Sherlock alive. Now it wasn't a  _home_ anymore. It was just a place where he existed, occupied space. A necessity. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to go to that empty kitchen where no one jokes about eyes, nor drinks tea while reading newspapers. 

Eventually, he couldn't stand sitting in the living room in his chair, staring at John's empty one. It was shouting into his face how  _lonely_ and  _abandoned_ he was. His life became nothing. Because nothing ever happened when there was no John. There was no distraction from his mind. It was too much, too destructive. It just went on and on and he noticed every little detail about how  _John is not there_ and how it's  _never going to be the same again_ . John Watson didn't belong to him and to that flat anymore. John Watson belonged to a woman who was known as Mary Morstan. Now Mary Watson. That was all there was to it.

So Sherlock decided to move John's chair away again. He moved it to his own bedroom. Now there was even more space in the living room. _More emptiness he couldn't fill._ It seemed aggressive. Silently tense. Frustratingly unchanging. 

The things seemed as if Sherlock's presence didn't touch them. Days continued to pass and everything seemed exactly the same. It didn't matter if he was there or not. If he was dead, nothing would change. The flat would still be the same empty place. He coudln't fill it by himself. No matter how many papers he stacked around him and how many experiments he ran in the kitchen, it still seemed eerie and...  _lacking_ . Sherlock couldn't touch it. He couldn't change it.

He could only exist.

And he came across the wish that he wouldn't.

_If only she shot him back then properly. It could be over. It could all be over._

Just like that, he ended up in his curled up position. He was in his bedroom, on John's chair that he had dragged there to get it out of the way. He climbed on it and clung to it. _The remains of John's presence._ The last thing that could possibly save him for one more day...

 


End file.
